


Violette

by Wallissa



Series: La Cabale Universe [2]
Category: Peaky Blinders (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Barebacking, Baroque AU, Crossdressing, Identity Porn, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Rococo AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-11
Updated: 2020-05-11
Packaged: 2021-03-02 23:22:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,527
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24135034
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wallissa/pseuds/Wallissa
Summary: During a particularly boring visit to a particularly luxurious theatre, Alfie spots a Lady in another box with eyes of a very familiar shade of blue. He goes to investigate.A mix of cold eyes and warm silk, gold and purple, the scent of hot beeswax and lavender.(A side piece to the La Cabale AU, can be read as a standalone - please read the note at the beginning!)
Relationships: Tommy Shelby/Alfie Solomons
Series: La Cabale Universe [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1741525
Comments: 2
Kudos: 50





	Violette

**Author's Note:**

  * For [maggie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/maggie/gifts).



> This is an extended version of a [ask prompt fill](https://typinggently.tumblr.com/post/189478698795/7-a-theater-at-midnight-golden-jewelry-a) I did on my writing tumblr a few months back and I've been meaning to expand it into a "real one shot" ever since. So here we go!!
> 
> The prompt was _a theater at midnight, golden jewelry, a whispered secret_ \- looking back, not much whispering is happening, but I hope you'll enjoy it nevertheless!
> 
> There is no real connection to the main story - it takes part before the events to Les Cabales, where Tommy and Alfie are just fucking around, blissfully unaware that they're in love. That - among some other minor details - has been changed from that first drabble, since I at the time wasn't yet sure what I wanted to do with Lady Violet.

In general, Alfie wouldn’t say that many instances render him speechless. This, however, comes close. “My dear, would you hand me the opera glasses for a moment, please?” Anthony hurries to comply and thusly armed, Alfie glances once again at the balcony of the Duchess.

She’s a pretty thing, soft and full of wine-sweet smiles, but Alfie is more interested in her companion. Ever since her marriage, the pink-sweet Duchess has been guarded like a particularly nice bone and her husband, ever the snarling watchdog, is right by her side any time she goes out. The poor, soft little peach has not a single moment to herself the second she steps out of the house and she certainly isn’t allowed to invite men into her box. However – “Oh, that little rat.” Alfie shakes his head, laughing to himself, and gets up. “My Sweet, I’ll be right back. I saw an old acquaintance and I’m afraid I’ll have to make polite conversation.” With that, Alfie drops the opera glasses in Anthony’s lap and runs two fingertips over his neck, just above the lace ruffled over his collar. “You stay here with the gentlemen, I’m sure they’ll take proper care of you.”

Considering the fact that he’s supposed to introduce Anthony to a certain circle of respectable friends of his, just dropping the poor thing to go hunt for his own adventure might seem a little rude, but Alfie left him in the caring company of four friends of his and while they might chew on him a little, he won’t be lonely. Which means that Alfie isn’t all that wrong about seeking his own amusement.

At the box of the Duke and Duchess, he thankfully meets Mrs Denver, who was kind enough to trust him with her daughter a few years ago. Lovely girl, she was, if a little cold at first. The mother’s had a soft spot for him since, which means he is smuggled right into the box for friendly introductions.  
The Duke – tall, eyes like a hungry dog – regards him with a cold look, which isn’t surprising. The Duchess up close has a quite different sort of hunger glinting in her eyes and oh, Alfie almost changes plans when Mrs Denver introduces him as the former teacher of her daughter and that little peach face flushes so sweetly. But no, no. He didn’t come here for that.  
“And who’s your friend, if I may ask?”

Oh, those eyes are ice cold. Half hidden in the velvet darkness of the elegant jewellery box, the mysterious companion of the Duchess rises and extends a hand. Alfie makes sure to miss the ring, kissing the back of a trembling hand instead. Perfume against his lips. 

“Oh, that’s Lady Violet, a dear friend of mine.” The Duchess is pink and sweet, giggly at her husband’s side. A heavy hand on her round, lovely little shoulder.  
“Lady Violet?” Alfie squints, steps a little closer. The faint rustle of silk as the friend presses herself into the corner. “I dare say I almost didn’t recognise you. We met before, didn’t we? At the- the garden party at Hunton Hill, last May?”  
The Duchess fidgets a little, he can see it out of the corner of his eye. “Please, she has a cold, she can’t speak, but – I don’t think –“  
“I remember.” 

Now, if Alfie had been speechless before, he certainly is now. The softest little whisper, delicate like spun sugar. He nods, bites his tongue to make sure he doesn’t laugh. “How glad I am to hear it. But I’m terribly sorry about the cold, my dear friend. Would you allow me to accompany you outside? During his time of the year I just fall from one cold into another, it’s positively dreadful. My doctor got so upset over having to make the trip to my estate time and time again that he now makes me carry my own bag around in case I feel feverish again. So please, if you’d allow, my Dearest, I’d accompany you outside for a moment while my boy gets my bag for me, then we can see whether we can find something to lubricate your throat with.”

It’s almost too much, but he knows he’ll get away with it. The Duchess tries to argue, tries to step out of her husband’s grasp to shield her dear friend from Alfie’s friendliness. Lady Violet, however, is nodded and thus, all rescue attempts are pointless.  
In a flutter of blue silk, the Lady has melted out of the shadows and kissed her friend on the cheek, then she puts her hand on Alfie’s arm and forces him out of the box. Her grip is surprisingly strong for so delicate and lovely a person.

Outside, Alfie keeps up some nonsense conversation about honey and whiskey and lovely pale throats while the Lady keeps her head modestly lowered as they pass the people returning to their boxes after the intermezzo. In the steady flow of people around them, Lady Violet manages to slip away, stepping to the side and pulling Alfie behind her and down a flight of stairs into the bowels of the theatre. The laughter of the lush, champagne-foamed ladies and the chatter of the wine-smooth gentlemen carries for a moment, then they’re alone in the corridors, empty now that life has returned to the stage.

Their steps quicken and Alfie really isn’t all that surprised by the familiarity with which his blue-silked companion leads him. He supposes all theatres in London have some vague similarities in their architecture, whether they be golden-red opera houses or the powdered, sticky-hot places where dresses are old and made of gaudy faux-silk, prone to slipping.

The scent of wood polish fills the air, warm wax and hair powder. At one door, they finally stop, a cool hand on the doorknob.

“In.” Not all that soft a voice, now. 

~*~

Alfie stumbles when he’s shoved and laughs. “What the fuck are you doing?”  
It’s the first thing he can think of, the only thing on his mind now that they’re alone. A strange rush of adrenaline burns through him and he laughs again, watches as Tommy leans against the closed door, breathing heavily. “What the fuck is all of that?”

In the few seconds it takes Tommy to catch his breath and open his eyes, Alfie has a look around, intimately familiar only with the backrooms of the theatre the Shelby brothers run on the other side of the Thames. They’re in a changing room, rows of costumes in the back and glittering mirrors on the wall. The candles on the two candelabras fills the room with multiplied, flickering light and beeswax-scented heat. It catches on the silk of Tommy’s dress, making it shine like the petals of the flowers Tommy picked for the Lady’s name, wet and shimmery. A terribly fetching contrast to the powdered white of his chest, his throat. There’s a hint of blush on his cheeks, softening the sharp angles of his face. His Adam’s apple is hidden behind a heavy necklace, gold flickering in the candlelight, while his waist – he has to be wearing a corset, all optical illusions and cleverly arranged lace aside, there is simply no way his waist is naturally that slim.  
“Now, how did this little costume idea come to be, I wonder?”

Tommy opens his eyes just a little and he huffs, squaring his shoulders. Alfie has never seen him in anything but selections of elegant-masculine layers, so the sight of his collar bones so proudly on display is terribly enticing. “It seemed like the most practical option.”

“What, instead of hiding with the chambermaid you construct this disguise and go to the theatre with them? You could’ve walked back to London in the time it must’ve cost you to do your hair.” At its mention, Tommy reaches out to touch it, a delicate pat against powdered strands. It can’t be a full wig, some of it has to be Tommy’s own, but Alfie can’t tell where one ends and the other begins. A soft curl rests on his shoulder, once again leading the eye to his collarbones and skilfully distracting from the unusual broadness of Lady Violet’s shoulders. “And where did you find a dress in your size? Does she always put the men she sneaks into her bed into those? I had no idea she was this wicked. What fun you two must’ve had.”

Tommy huffs and finally steps further into the room, passing Alfie. The faintest hint of lavender. Alfie turns to watch as he sits on one of the wooden stools to check his hair in the mirror with the familiarity of a skilled actress. Considering how much time he spends with them, it’s not surprising that they’d rub off on him in more than one way. “Judging by the way she opened up, she hasn’t had male visitors in a good while. It took me two months to get there, she’s awfully timid for such a soft thing.” There’s a little line of silk roses braided into the back of his coiffure, their colours matching the pink dress of Lady Violet’s conquest. 

Alfie takes a moment to consider it, that wine-sweet mouth soft and hot, little fingers digging into Tommy’s shoulders, her peach-softness bruised by his hands. Finally, he steps closer to meet Tommy’s eye in the mirror. “Two months, huh? And all the while you planned to put on a dress to escape?”

Tommy raises a brow at him. “Something like that.”

It’s pure vanity, then. It’s pure foolishness. A story to tell. Alfie huffs and runs his fingertips along Tommy’s powder-smooth collarbone, tickling his neck with his fingertips. “You better watch out, Lady Violet, your performance might be too convincing. What do you do if the Duke gets curious about his wife’s friend?”

“I doubt that will be a problem,” Tommy says, but his voice is light, distracted. He tilts his head a little and Alfie’s fingertips run along the edge of his heavy necklace, pearls and gold, warm skin. 

“No?” From this angle, Alfie can see the lace-trimmed neckline, roses and frills making up for a distinct lack of volume. Still, it’s a little loose and Alfie can just barely make out the pale shimmer of Tommy’s chest in the shadows. “Will you leave with them? All piled up in their carriage, him not knowing that you’ve gotten your knuckles wet in his wife –“  
Alfie would go on, the image is quite appealing, but instead he slips his hand from Tommy’s shoulder down into the open neckline of his dress, cold fingertips on warm skin. Tommy draws in a harsh breath, involuntarily pressing his chest against his curious fingers. Another breath and Alfie finds his nipple, pinches it. 

It’s a lovely view, his hand buried to the wrist in purple silk, but then he looks up and catches Tommy’s expression in the mirror and oh, that’s even sweeter. His cheeks are dark, lashes heavy, eyes glittering and unfocused. Alfie pinches him again, watches him shudder, then pulls his hand back.

It’s only now that Tommy meets his eye, lips sigh-wet and pink. Alfie pulls him up by the shoulder, spins him around to press close, feel the trim, silk-smooth waist under his hands. When Alfie tangles his fingers in the lacing of the dress, however, Tommy reaches out to hold his wrist, leaning in so close that his lips are brushing Alfie’s, smearing them with red as he speaks. “It took us an hour to get it on.” He’s flushed, breathing heavy. The corset must be tight, poor thing. 

Alfie reaches down with his free hand, squeezes his sweet little waist and listens to the stutter in his breath. “It’ll take me ten minutes to get you out. At most.”  
With that, he kisses him, tasting wine-sweetness and rogue. Tommy’s grip on his wrist loosens and he melts, all hot tongue and soft mouth. Still, he doesn’t let go, so Alfie pulls back to look at his face. “Sweetheart?”

“Just-“ Tommy does his best to look frustrated, a true feat considering his big, shiny eyes. “Just help me get the pannier off. Everything else is too much of a hassle to get on again.”

And see, as intriguing as the visuals of Tommy in an undone corset and a chemise would be, this right here – the gold, the silk, the coiffure – that’s _something_. Alfie isn’t done thinking that when he already finds himself on one knee, slipping his hands underneath the hem of the dress. 

And while Tommy might not usually find himself on that side of a dress (at least that’s what Alfie would assume), he has enough experience with the undressing process that between the two of them, they manage to get the birdcage untied from his waist without messing too much with the silhouette of the dress. Tommy steps out of the pannier pooled on the floor, giving it a little kick that would make Alfie laugh, if he wasn’t so busy shrugging out of his long coat. 

Once that’s taken care of, he reaches for the hem of Tommy’s dress again, now loosely falling to the floor. He finds Tommy’s ankle and follows the line of his calf, in the process pushing up the dress and revealing the white of his stockings, the muscular line of his legs. It’s always an enchanting sight and certainly one of Alfie’s favourites when Tommy’s in brocade silk and buckled shoes, but there’s a particularly nice touch to revealing it under layers of silk.

“This is about practicability,” Tommy says as he rests his weight on the dressing table, head dropping between his shoulders, spine an alluring curve. 

“Of course”, Alfie says kindly, fingertips following his warm thighs up until they rest on the curve of his arse. He hums, giving him a good squeeze. “I like this look.” The violet fabric, shoved up on Tommy’s hips, pools down in a silky cascade, while the candlelight catches in the embroidery and makes the lace on his collar look delicate like fairy wings. 

It’s a wonderful contrast to the lewd display below Tommy’s waist and Alfie can’t quite believe that he’d never thought of this before. “You know, I’d give up the view of your beautiful calves for the promise of this underneath your pretty robes.” He reaches between Tommy’s thighs, spread slightly for stability, and gives his cock a languid stroke. It’s not fully hard yet, but it pulses in his palm and he can see the shiver travelling down his spine. 

“Stop talking,” Tommy says in a voice that does little to discourage Alfie’s teasing, and arches his spine as much as possible with the corset still in place. “Do something.”

And see, usually in spontaneous and heated situations like this, Alfie would just play with him a little, shove his tongue into him until he cried, stroke his cock until his knees buckled. But this time, he’s blissfully prepared. So he reaches into his coat and pulls out a little ampoule, about the size of a bottle of smelling salt. Once his fingers are coated and he’s pushing them against Tommy’s hole, a shudder goes through his deceptive companion and Tommy turns his head slightly, cheek flushed and mouth smeared in red from their earlier kiss. “Why are you carrying that to the theatre?”

He’s doing a rather good, if unconvincing impression of someone who’s genuinely interested in the answer. Alfie, a good conversationalist, pushes two fingertips just past his rim, letting him feel that first gentle stretch. “I brought company and thought it might be wise to prepare for a boring performance. This isn’t your illustrious grand theatre, after all. No slim ankles, no wandering hands, no girls toppling over with their delicious little squeals to show off their underskirts – it gets boring after a while.”

As he talks, he gently works his fingers in proper, fucking Tommy deeper with every little thrust until the palm of his hand is brushing against the curve of his arse. By now, Tommy is resting his forehead on his hands, breathing shallow and quick. “Who did you bring?”

“A student of mine, Love, no need to be jealous.” Before Tommy can complain, Alfie quickly twists his fingers, making Tommy’s knees buckle and effectively turning his sharp comments into honey-sweet moans. He adds a little more oil, spreads his fingers. “Not that anyone could compare to the sweetness of Lady- What was it?”

Tommy makes a soft little noise, pushing back against his fingers.

“No, sweetheart, use your words.” Alfie gives him a loving slap, just hard enough to paint a sweet pink flush on his left cheek. Not that it’s much of a punishment, considering how Tommy’s spine dips and his hole clenches around Alfie’s fingers. 

“Lady Violet.” His voice is dripping in arousal, sweet like a squeezed peach, and that usually means he’s ready, or at the very least eager enough. So Alfie gives his fingers another twist to make him moan and pulls his hand back.

He pours some more oil into the palm of his hand, then remembers he still has to undo his trousers. One-handed, it takes a little longer and is far from graceful. When he finally puts his warm-slick hand on his cock, he strokes himself once to coat his length, twice simply out of self-indulgence, letting his eyes wander over Tommy. 

By now, the sweet lady is shivering, forehead resting on his palms on the glossy table, coiffure brushing against the mirror. It’s a shame Alfie can’t see his face, but his tiny waist and the blush-sweet curve of his arse, his pink-eager hole make up for it just fine. He’s also trembling ever so slightly and Alfie can already tell that he’s at the brink of slipping into his messy-sweet state of blissed out arousal.

That usually doesn’t happen before Alfie has teased him to the point of tears, but he suspects that the unusual ensemble might have more of an effect on Tommy than he’d like to admit. And, well. Alfie would lovingly tease him for it, but his own cock is flushed and hot.

So instead of indulging in some more gentle banter, he just gives his cock a good squeeze and steps in closer, the tip brushing against the rim of his hole. At the touch, Tommy makes a greedy little sound, which Alfie takes as encouragement to slowly push in. 

He doesn’t know how Tommy does it, what it is about him, but that first thrust always leaves Alfie a little breathless, a bit stupid. He waits it out, hands on Tommy’s waist, eyes fluttering closed as he concentrates on his breathing. Not that he has much time, though, since after about three heartbeats, Tommy starts making those impatient little sounds, moving back against him.

With the way he’s still resting most of his weight on the dressing table, legs spread, he can’t really get a decent rhythm, but it’s enough to spur Alfie into action. He starts out gentle, with barely more than a subtle twitch of his hips, his hands slipping over the smooth-warm line of Tommy’s back, his sides, his spine. Apparently, it’s too worshipping a touch, though, because Tommy lets out something close to a growl. Alfie huffs a laugh and pulls his hands down to his artificially tiny waist, squeezing him with both hands. “Fine, fine. I see the Lady is greedy.”

Before Tommy can speak out (and he’s shaking to do so, Alfie knows him well enough to be certain of that), Alfie starts to fuck him properly. The hard-fast thrusts catch Tommy by surprise, his hands slip on the glossy wood and his knees buckle, shoes scratching over the floor, his moan hitched-surprised. It brings a slight change in angle and Alfie thrusts in deeper, already half-drunk on the heat, the delicious tightness.

Until now, his gaze had been unfocused, lost somewhere in the pleats of the back of Tommy’s dress, but now he blinks, licks his lips, and _looks_. There’s the mirror, and although it’s still of little use with the way Tommy’s melted on the table top, body rocking softly with Alfie’s thrusts, it’s still an odd thrill to catch the shine of the buttons of his own waistcoat out of the corner of his eye. 

But most important, of course, is the display Tommy’s putting on. Cheek resting on one hand, eyes glassy and cheeks flushed under the powder. A curl came loose, now stuck to his smeared-red mouth, and the wood is fogging up with his moans. The purple silk is a nice contrast to his pale shoulders, his flushed face and his waist is silk-warm in Alfie’s hands.

He looks divine, to make it short, and Alfie’s feeling more and more drunk on it. His thrusts get faster, heat building under his shirt, his waistcoat, but the slick-hot clench around his cock is too distracting to grant him the willpower to reach for his collar and undo the first few buttons. Instead, he shifts his weight, in the process pushing Tommy down against the table and slightly changing his angle, thrusting in deeper.

Tommy’s clawing at the table top, unable to move with Alfie’s weight pinning him down and helpless to do anything but gasp and moan, knees buckling. On the next moan, his voice finally breaks, a shiver goes through him and his hole tightens around Alfie, slick and unbearably hot. 

It’s enough to bring Alfie to the brink of his own orgasm. His moan is almost surprised and hand slips on Tommy’s shoulder as he pulls him back, so he tightens his grip. He feels Tommy’s collarbone against his fingertips, the muscular line of his shoulder, and as he pulls him back onto his cock, he catches a glimpse of his expression in the mirror. Heavy lashes over unfocused eyes, pink cheeks and wet, open mouth. With the thrust, Tommy’s lashes flutter and his eyes roll back, a sigh-soft moan falling from his lips and that’s enough.

Alfie’s coming with a low growl, hips snapping and grip bruising-tight on him. Pleasure floods through him, molten gold seeps into his veins and dims his vision.

When he comes to, the silk is wrinkled under his hands. He’s a little breathless and as he leans in to rest his forehead against Tommy’s shoulder, his voice is soft against his best intentions. “Ah, Love, I’m sorry.”

Tommy lets out a low moan, doing nothing to chase him off even as Alfie squeezes his hips again. “What for?” It’s moments like this, Tommy still lust-drunk and sloppy, that Alfie truly wishes he could do it all over again, just stay right here until he’s hard again and fuck him to pieces once more. 

“Wrinkled your dress.”

Another low noise and Alfie can feel his cock twitch. This time, Tommy reaches back to slap at his wrist. “Out.”

With that order and regret, Alfie carefully pulls out, then quickly buttons up again. As uncomfortable as his soft-slick cock feels, his earlier adventure had proven that the lady doesn’t keep a handkerchief in her décolletage. So since he’s a gentleman, he uses his own to gently clean up the worst of the mess they made, once again wishing he could just indulge himself and play with Tommy’s hole and cock until he was ready again. Next time, he promises himself. Instead, he works quickly and efficiently, before Tommy wakes from his cock-drunk state and remembers his ego.

Finally, Alfie straightens and gives Tommy’s pink cheek a loving squeeze.

“You really are the sweetest Lady I’ve ever seen. If a bit on the cheap side, I have tp say, letting yourself be fucked in a cloakroom and all.”

“Fuck off.” Tommy turns his head, brows furrowed.

But that won’t do, so Alfie kisses his throat just below his jaw, where his pulse is still thrumming. “Now, Love, don’t be cross. Give us a kiss. Not like it’s going to make the make-up much worse.” 

With a little sigh of annoyance, Tommy turns his head to face him again. Not that Alfie has reason to be upset about his little act and the faux-cold shoulder, considering Tommy willingly tilts his chin to kiss him.

It’s a languid, messy affair. Alfie can taste rogue and sweat on his lips, his tongue. Tommy’s hands squeeze his shoulders and he presses close, warm and languid.

Apparently, it restores his wits somewhat, since once they part, he turns towards the mirror once more to check on the state of his disguise. Alfie politely takes a step back to do the same. All things considered, it could be worse. The skirts are a little wrinkled, but it won’t be as obvious once he’s wearing the pannier again. The hair is in surprising good shape, practically as good as new once Tommy carefully pulled at a few strands, fluffing up the poof and curling some loose strands around his fingers. Practised movements that betray his origins. Alfie imagines him sitting with Ada, helping her do her hair in lieu of an actual chambermaid. It’s a strangely sweet thought, considering the last twenty minutes, and when Tommy starts working on his kiss-messy mouth, Alfie turns to slip into his coat again to give him privacy.

Naturally, the pannier takes a little work, but once it’s back in place, Alfie’s more than impressed with the result. He reaches out to touch Tommy’s elbow, pulling him in when he doesn’t resist. This time, he kisses his cheek to not mess up his make-up again, and the touch is odd. Alfie calls it delicate, in lieu of a different, more serious word, and steps back again.

“Well, Lady Violet, I assume I return you to your dear friend and her unsuspecting husband?”

Tommy makes a soft sound, experimentally clears his throat. “Yeah, sure.” He makes a low, purring sound that has no business warming Alfie to that extend and tries again. “Better that way.” His voice once again breathy, delicate, at odds with his words, and Alfie spares a moment to be genuinely impressed before offering his arm. Considering Tommy just takes it without a snarky remark or a cutting glance, Alfie supposes he did a good job wrecking him. 

It becomes more obvious once they’re actually walking, Tommy resting a tad more weight on him than his pride would usually allow. And well, Alfie would be worried, but the glassy doll-eyes of his companion as well as the rose-sweet blush suggest that it’s weak knees rather than pain that slow Tommy’s steps.

In the end, he manages to deliver the sweet Lady back into the arms of her loving-sweet friend and the hungry-eyed duke. It’s terribly caring company, he’s sure, even though they might chew on her a little. With that in mind to amuse himself, Alfie returns to his own box, where he watches the last half hour of a terribly dull play, all the while feeling the memory of silk under his hands as ice-cold eyes glance at him out of the velvety shadows.

**Author's Note:**

> First of all - thank you so much for reading! And thank you, Maggie (and anon <3) who requested the original prompt!
> 
> I know this is very late, I promised an additional something for Les Cabales at the beginning of April. However, I found myself in an awful state of writer's block that I'm only now recovering from. Thank you so much for your patience! The last few weeks have been very difficult for all of us.
> 
> Now - as mentioned at the beginning, this story has changed quite a bit. The most notable change, I think, was Tommy's dress. I'm not even sure how well that translated since I've read that damn thing so much it's basically all word salad to me at this point, but it's a purple dress now where it was blue in the original drabble. Honestly, the only reason for that is that I wanted the Lady Violet to make sense - and it still doesn't. The name is actually a reference to Tommy's eyes and it's another case of me not being a native speaker. Violet is? blue? but it's also purple?? In German, there's "violett"(violet) and "veilchenblau" (blue as violets) and I was thinking of the latter when I came up with that whole concept, but then after what felt like hours of google research I had to come to the conclusion that I apparently fucked up since violet is SOMETIMES used when talking about blue, but basically...almost never. So now the man's called "Miss Purple" for NO reason. Honestly, that makes me a tad mad, I gotta admit. 
> 
> The "Lady Violet" series has three parts so far and I'm honestly tempted to continue expanding it. Feel free to tell me your thoughts on that - or your thoughts in general! Comments and kudos mean so much to me, they always brighten my day :)  
> You can also, of course, find me on [tumblr](https://typinggently.tumblr.com/)
> 
> Again - thank you so much for reading! I hope you're all doing well and staying safe during those stressful times <3 <3


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